


Sticky fingers and orange kisses

by elizaria



Category: Angel: the Series RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 03:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15548346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaria/pseuds/elizaria
Summary: [originally posted 2006-03-21]Title: Sticky fingers and orange kissesFandom: James Marsters/Vincent Kartheiser RPSStatus: finished - 1302 wordsGenre: porny James POVShort summary: ficlet for ROS_FOD's birthday -- Sometimes it's all about the contrasts, your body adding up sensations it doesn't know what to respond to first, or in any order. It's all jumbled chaos of cold, wet chill, soft skin, heated kisses, and the document crinkling between your fingers as you forget you're still holding it in your hand.





	Sticky fingers and orange kisses

Summer, sticky and hot and a week free to do anything. To do anyone, to spend the day in air-cooled hotel rooms and have room service wait on you hand and foot. One week of spoiling yourself silly. But also no guitar to occupy restless hands, no long days of filming that keep you from thinking about all these other things, about responsibilities and losses.  
  
The balcony door is left open, letting the hot air inside but also the smells of the ocean, of asphalt hot enough that the tar melts.   
The peeled oranges on the discarded plate smell as sweet as they taste.   
  
You're listening to the sounds outside, trying to concentrate on reading a manuscript that really holds no interest, but perhaps money. Watching the cigarette smoke waft against the open door - once again the nicotine patches failed to be enough. Long hours of nothing leads to jittery hands, no rest for the workaholic who compares every minute to long lists of things that could have been done instead.  
  
But yesterday's phone call brought today's distraction. No, distraction isn't right cause he is more than that. What exactly  hasn't been said, but sometimes words aren't needed. Not words like that.  
  
Not when he jumps you in bed, cool and wet, his long hair dripping saltwater on your heated skin. Stealing your cigarette, and getting the last of it. Wet lips sucking in the hot dirty air, breathing it into you as he steals a kiss.  
  
Sometimes it's all about the contrasts, your body adding up sensations; it doesn't know what to respond to first, or in what order. It's all jumbled chaos of cold, wet chill, soft skin, heated kisses, and the document crinkling between your fingers as you forget you're still holding it in your hand. His swim shorts are wet and cold against your naked legs, but his body's warm, longs legs bracketing yours. Ashes from the forgotten cigarette-butt falling on the pillowcase as he pushes down your shoulders, the kiss so deep, as if he's tasting for clues where your mouth have been. His lips, the inside of his mouth is wet and slick and tastes of ocean, salt and smoke. And just him. Vince, Vinnie. He never looked liked a Vincent.  
  
His hair sticking to your cheek as you open up, let him dig deeper. Teeth clash, lips stretched tight and still not enough. His body bucks into yours, leaning down his hands gliding off your shoulders and into your hair. A swift thought that you're lucky the cigarette is out, before you totally forget it when he groans into your mouth. Slick tongue deep inside you, the slim body on top of yours, pushing you down and rubbing the wet fabric even closer, goose bumps on your skin from the chill. Or is it the taste and feel of him?  
  
Hot hands on naked skin, tracing his ribs, tickling his sides to get that little puff of air he does, the giggle hiding in his throat. But you have other goals in mind than to make him laugh. You want his other sounds, the desperate pleading ones, the deep groans as he's filled, the soft soft whines when you hold him still, and barely moving.   
  
Sliding down his side, delicate soft skin, underneath his swim shorts - his ass cool against your heated palm. Arching up into your heat. A quick bite to your lower lip as he rises up, skinny frame above you. Longlimbed and beautiful, soft and angled in the right places. His hair tufting up in shapes of your hands, you can't help but smile up at him. The big smile that makes the crowsfeet at your eyes show. The little marks of age he sometimes traces with his slender fingers, and you try to hide the discomfort of being reminded how old you are. You don't want him to notice it. Which he does. Of course. He sees more than you want and just what you need.  
  
But he just grins back, big and bright like a little boy, before he rolls off you and discards the wet shorts. They land with a wet squishy plop on the floor. He doesn't care. Not his stylish wooden floor to worry about.  
  
He crawls back, squiggles around till he's seated comfortably across your hips, just torturously close enough that your dick nudges that pretty ass of his. Close but no cigar Jimmy boy. But seated like this you get to look at him as much as you want; he blushes if you quietly just watch him long enough. Strokes of pink on his cheeks and throat and chest, pretty as any boy can be. Deceivingly innocent, lips reddened by bruising kisses, he's a devil dressed in a halo.  
  
He reaches across and grabs the plate of fruit. Thumps it down on your chest with grin, and feeds you pieces. They've dried in the air, but as soon as you split them open with your teeth the juice flows into your mouth. Dribbles on your lips and jaw, sticky fingers painting your mouth so he can suck and lick off the taste. Mango so soft it crushes against your lips, and you tangle your tongues trying to get all the pieces. Orange juice in sticky drops down your neck and he follows with his mouth, a sticky kiss below the ear. A tug of teeth on that sweet place where your neck meets shoulder, sucking up a mark he doesn't have to worry about showing on the screen.  
  
Your hands dig into his hips, buck and twist. Your tongue plays with his fingers, watching his mouth form into an o, his body shiver as you suck hard on two of his fingers. Slick and wet, and soon he moves his hips just where you want him.  
  
Push up so you can lick his cheeks, nibble on his neck and lips as he raises up above you, leaning on his left arm, his body shaking and glistening with juice and sweat. You can feel the tension in his hips as you hold him, steady him as he sinks down with that deep groan you can't ever hear enough of. Plundering his mouth, pushing into him, his body a bowstring of beauty as he arches to get you deeper inside.  
  
This you can never get tired of; a different blush on his body now and his hair falling over his eyes. Thick eyelashes dark crescents on heated cheeks, brow creased, and he looks so focused, to find the right twist and push. To let his hands and fingers feel you, to see you in touch and taste. His mouth is wet and open and breathing hard and unsteady.  
  
And suddenly he feels very far away, like this is just borrowed time till he sees you for what you really are. And maybe he felt something different, maybe you slowed down without knowing, but he opens his eyes and looks at you. Raw and open the need is there to see, not just to get fucked and get off. Vince never had any shame, open for anyone to read and now those words are just what you needed to see. A punch in the gut and a hot wire to your dick, that kind of want is a scary but addictive thing.  
  
You've dug your fingers deep into slim hips, reared up and claimed his lips before you even realized you moved. Slamming into him, deep and hard as you can, while you dig your tongue deep into his panting mouth to get more of him. To taste nothing but him and the lingering flavor of oranges, to claim his mouth and breathe into him words you never do say out loud.  
  
  
-End


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